


Maybe it Means Nothing

by RPGCATZ



Series: No Sound He Made [2]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Neck Wounds, Parasites, Seth is there for like 30 seconds but he’s Important okay., Still important, Vomiting, like. That’s really important too, only there for maybe 20 seconds tops.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 08:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGCATZ/pseuds/RPGCATZ
Summary: “But I have to say I think about you oftenAnd if you want no part with me,I'll walk away, I know that I have wronged you.”-Tonya, Brockhampton.





	Maybe it Means Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> to die, and live again.  
> such an odd existence those parasites lead.
> 
> -tw;   
> -depictions of neck trauma   
> -vomiting

——

“My ghost still haunt you, my life is I, Tonya.  
A Big eyed monster, only face to conquer.”

——

The knife is sharp, a bit dull on the left side, but it gets the job done. 

Alex feels it slide into his neck repeatedly, stabbing and tearing at the flesh with a hungry anger. 

It’s only fair that he die with the very knife he gifted to Jay, by the hands of the very man who started it all. 

He dies, yelling at him, silent, broken pleas dying in his throat before the blood chokes him into total silence. 

They were friends once. 

they laughed, and joked, and he had even trusted Alex with knowledge of his alters. 

He never used it against him, too much nostalgia in the way his hands radiated warmth and familiarity no one else could offer. too much in the way he stared intensely through anger fuled tears. 

The world blurs. 

His life slips, falling from his fingers in waves, or maybe that’s the blood. 

something crawls into his wounds, sticking into his throat, whispers static into his ears before his eyes close for the last time. 

That faceless thing looks at him, staring him down with an intensity he never expected from something faceless. 

He nearly chokes when he wakes, blood and flesh and whatever that Thing was that crawled in him caking the insides of his throat, clogging his mouth until it spills from his mouth in a horrid black tar. 

The pain was excruciating, spreading from his neck to his gut, a burning, acidic wave of black vomit forcing its way through his intestines and to the ground below him. 

Leaves cover the ground, and trees sway above him when he looks to them once the tears and pain and vomiting and confusion stop pounding against his being. he can hear static surrounding him in a circle, swishing through the trees and ripping into his already sensitive nerves. 

His vision is already stunted enough with his lack of glasses or contacts, but he swears he can see faceless, lanky figures from the corner of his eye, farther into the woods around him, but they’re gone before he sees them dead on. 

maybe it’s better that way. 

His brain yells at him to run, to leave, to go Somewhere.

he gets up from the ground, not caring about the blood on his shirt, or the dirt on his body, the black vomit that drips deftly from his mouth until he wipes it with the edge of his bloody shirt. 

It doesn’t do much, he can feel the blood spread to his face in a crude, slightly scratchy, smear with a suppressed shudder sailing through his body. 

He floats through the woods like a spirit, his mind drifting yet peacefully blank, only a few words letting themselves in to tell him to stop or wait or move or breathe or the simple word ark. 

he wasn’t sure where he heard it, it seemed familiar to him, ringing against his skull impatiently, as if waiting for him to remember the significance, only for it to be swallowed by the static like molasses of blissful blankness his mind kept reverting to. 

Its nice. The silence of the world around him, the cool air against his feverish skin, the general silence of his own mind. 

The final had been a rarity in the nine, spotty years he had been in direct contact with that Thing. Alone, fending for himself with a faceless monster pulling the leash on his neck, his mind shattered and filled to the brim with it’s voice, at least, what sounded like a voice. It spoke nonsense, gargled static and a few small beats of actual words.

It sounded like the small swirls of static that passed him and circled too close for comfort, the moments where his mind told him to stop and wait and hold his breath. 

 _uninterested,_ he had to make them uninterested in him until they left, according to the new, static voiced auto pilot he was running on.  

When they did pass, he was free to walk and breathe and trail his hands against the cold, almost rotted bark of the dark trees surrounding him. 

He wasn’t sure when exactly he reached the clearing, only that he did, and that there was a tall, gray scaled house standing almost menacingly in front of him. 

There was a swing on the far side of the porch, and a fence separating the front door from the stairs leading to it. 

The swing swayed gently when he walked to the fence and pushed open the gate. 

though the windows, he could only see an inky depth. But the static in his brain buzzed louder, nearly a screech, and the significance of the word Ark slamming to the forefront of his mind.

He could feel them, the creatures, watching him from behind his back.

He held his breath, he held it until he nearly choked, gasping for oxygen.

His brain told him to make himself uninteresting, that they would leave.

 _Open it_ , the voice stated.

He finally noticed the small movement of his hand to the doorknob, hovering in mid air, they wanted him to open the door. 

He moved to the actual wood of the door itself, and lifted his fist to knock.

He hadn’t seen anyone else in his passing of the woods, yet he didn’t know if anyone else could be living in this strange place, and if they were, he wanted to keep as few living enemies as possible. 

Before his hand connected to the wood of the door, it swung open to reveal a dark hallway. The walls of the house were dark, and the warping grains pulled at his vision. The pattern in the wood looked like eyes. 

Those static, faceless entities still watched his back, circling the perimeter of the house. Staring, judging. 

Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, and he stepped into the house. 

The door shut behind him, and the static in the air lessened. 

He felt himself move through the halls, the autopilot in his head kicking in again, and up the flights of stairs until he reached a room. On the door the patterns in the wood shifted, until many different and intricate pine trees formed into the wood. There was a small peephole sized circle in the high center of the mural, and it looked to be aflame when he stared at it, but it was just as cold at the rest of the door when he touched it. 

It was when he reached for the doorknob that he took notice of the small dark figure between the patterned trees, it looked startled and stood in an almost crouched stance. The face was completely void of actual features, but the design was intricate, and was pulled together by the flow of red on both the figure and the ground beneath it. 

He turned the knob, and headed into the room. 

In the far left corner of the room with the end facing the door, was a generally average bed, with a knitted quilt, a second blanket at the bottom of the bed and a few general looking pillows against the headboard.

the bed was made, and each edge was pristine and sharp.

other than the bed, a dresser, a small bedside table and a writing desk, the room was fairly empty.  Outside the window on the far wall of the room, he could see the dark sky, and the pockets of static that were ripped and left to bleed into the world. 

High above the trees, he could see the moon, or what he assumed was the moon, seeing as it was on fire and dripping tar. The trees swayed and he swore he could see faceless, pale beings out of the corner of his eye. He turned back to the room.  

In the center of the bed laid a completely blank mask, no holes for eyes, a mouth, or a nose, and was completely smooth. The only reason he knew it was a mask and not a bowl, was the string laying gracefully on either side of the mask, and the hollowed out, yet generally fitting inside of it. 

The actual inside of the mask was completely black, while the front had been a white with a touch of grey in it. 

There was a white dot above where the eye would have been, right between the brows. 

He figured that it was placed there to say “this side up” in a way. 

 _put it on,_ the voice states, and because Alex is tired, so, _so_ tired, and quite frankly sick of fighting things, he does. 

For a moment, the world goes dark. there’s no angry static screeching at him from the woods, or the itchy feeling of dried blood on his face and body. In fact, he can’t feel physically anything despite knowing that his body is still there, and it’s rather disorienting for a bit until he finally adjusts. 

At some point, he had closed his eyes against the darkness of the mask, allowing the calm of the moment to soothe his anxieties and stress. 

When he finally opens them, the inside of the mask is no longer completely a void. The whole room is outlined in a deep royal blue, shimmers of it dancing in his vision slowly. 

His vision is much clearer than it was before he put the mask on, almost acting like a pair of glasses, sharpening and expanding his senses in a wave of overstimulating pressure in his head. 

He goes to rip the mask off and throw it to the bed, but the world is dull, and normal, and he’s not facing the bed anymore. He’s facing the ceiling, with his back on soft sheets and a generally comfortable mattress. 

He wasn’t even sure when he had turned in the first place, just that his body had, and he had no memory of telling it to do so. 

in fact, he had no memory of crawling into the bed, or changing out of his bloodstained clothes, or when the itch of dried blood has been washed off of him. 

How long had he closed his eyes for? 

He turned to look out the window, and was met with the sight of closed curtains and a pulled up chair. 

The mask was already laying on the bedside table, having previously been removed. The door, which had previously been closed, was now cracked open to reveal the hallway beyond it, and the small glow of light that crawled from the sky into the house. 

there was a note stuck to the door of the dresser, and an uncannily familiar handwriting was etched into the paper. 

It read-

_brought you some more clothes. Don’t worry, I placed the mask on your bedside table. come tell me if you’re still feeling any pain in your neck or lower back. If you want company though, come down to the kitchen. I’m making tea._

_-SW_

\- the note itself sounds generally inviting,  but the creeping suspicion on the back of his neck, pricking in his skin like needles, keeps him to the room. 

The handwriting is familiar, far too familiar. He can’t place it though, his own memory just as spotty and shattered as Jay’s was.

He let the paper drop back down to hang on the dresser’s front and opened up the actual dresser. 

Looking hopefully to see a mirror in the open door, he was met only with a frame and a black sheet, the glass of the mirror had been completely shattered and taken out. He sighed, and opened the second door to get a better look at the clothing hanging inside. 

Most of the clothes were a black or gray and when he ran his hand over a few of them, he was surprised to find most of them were actually a very soft fabric. 

The ones on his body, although nice in appearance, felt full of electricity and energy, ready to shock him at any moment. 

The combat boots sitting next to the dresser were a nice touch though. 

Before he closed the door, he caught sight of a folded t-shirt and pants at the bottom of the dresser, both of which were practically spotless. It was a surprise due to the fact that when he had last worn them, they were drenched in blood and dirt and vomit. 

For a small, silly moment, he wished he had worn his old striped jacket instead of opting for the t-shirt alone. 

Something deep in his gut craving the nostalgia of his old existence, the feeling of knowing he wasn’t alone. Being in control _long enough_ to even know he wasn’t alone. 

 _unimportant_ , the autopilot suddenly corrected. 

 _No shit, really?_ He sarcastically asked back, half trying to cover the shock of hearing it and honestly not expecting an answer. 

_arguing, also pointless._

_Rude,_ He thinks back.  

_not rude. right._

Without realizing it, he had walked out of the room and had started walking down the hall. To his left and right we’re the stairs, one leading down, and another leading up. He hadn’t seen them when he first walked in. 

_and you're the one who said arguing was pointless, bud._

Taking the right and continuing, he found himself lead by the voice vibrating lowly in his head. 

The voice, despite the obvious problems, was generally easy to adapt to and it seemed capable of actually helping him instead of being a continuous nuisance.

Taking the last step of the stairs with the last word in the ‘argument’ with the voice going out, he found himself in a living room sort of area. 

There was an old tv sitting on a small stand in the center of the room, and a rather clean but worn couch in the middle of the room. 

Did the tv even work? Alex had no idea. 

 _Do Not turn it on. Danger. Faceless_. 

 _Oh_ , he said aloud. 

 _Oh what?_ he heard behind him. 

Whirling around, because that definitely wasn’t his head mate and it wasn’t his own internal voice, he found himself face to face with a familiar person. 

He could feel something prickle in his lower back, almost _shifting_ really. a feeling of protectiveness and faint fear filled him at the sight of the new person, the fear from himself as well. 

Fear, because standing in front of him, looking as mysterious and slightly friendly as always, was Seth Wilson. 

he was leaning against the door frame leading to the kitchen, another thing he had failed to notice, and was holding a small pale teacup in his even paler hand. 

his nails were sharp, and when he gave Alex a smile, he noticed his teeth were  sharp as well. Far too sharp to be a normal human. 

 _Tea?_ Seth asked, motioning to the kitchen with the teacup. 

 _uh_ , Alex was going to supply smartly, 

 _Sure_ , is what he ended up saying though, despite the fact that he for one, really didn’t like tea all that much, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to spend time with Seth, of all people. 

 _do as Orator says_ , the voice tells him. 

 _biggest chance of survival_ , they continue.

Following him into the kitchen, Alex wondered when Survival had become enough of a priority to him with _Seth_. 

He found he didn’t care, as long as he was alive long enough to figure out what the hell was even going on, he really didn’t give two single shits what he had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked writing the dialogue between Alex and his parasite lma. really liked making them snarky. 
> 
> As Always,  
> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated loves!~


End file.
